


ad astra

by dreamcities



Series: polaris [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Astronomy, Constellations, Gen, Night at the Museum - Freeform, but very vaguely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:49:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24999382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamcities/pseuds/dreamcities
Summary: The gist is: Jisung is in need of a job, Jaemin is a terribly convincing person, and, well, here he is. Just him, not Jaemin, because Jaemin’s got a proper, respectabledayjob working as a cashier at a small bookstore. Jisung, on the other hand, is stuck here at ass o’clock being a token night guard.
Series: polaris [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2075619
Comments: 24
Kudos: 43
Collections: Director's Cut Fest





	ad astra

**Author's Note:**

> _**REMEMBER, THAT THOUGH IN YOUR JOURNEY YOU MAY BE BOLD  
>  ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD ** _

“Right,” the manager cuts Jisung off mid-sentence, leaning back in her chair. “Thank you for coming.”

_Oh_. Well—Jisung isn’t exactly unfamiliar with rejection, he just didn’t expect this one to come so fast. Bummer. “Thank you for your time, m—”

“Oh, _no_ ,” the manager jerks back up, legs of her chair clashing obnoxiously against the hard grey tile of the office floor. “No, no, you’re good. You wanna start today?”

Hm— _huh?_

“Yeah, today, tonight, now,” she bounces her pen off the table, an obviously well-rehearsed habit, and it shoots neatly into the pen holder sitting by Jisung’s right. “We don’t even have a _single_ night guard now, and honestly, our standards are _so_ low, at this point.” That’s certainly slightly worrying. Jisung tries very, very hard not to swallow nervously when she fixes him with an emotionless, yet steely stare.

“What do you say? If you’re up to it, well, just look for Renjun at the front desk, he’ll help you with,” she pushes herself off the chair, gesturing to nothing in particular, “whatever needs to be done before you really start. Thanks for coming, Jisung.”

And she’s out of the room, the office door creaking shut behind her and leaving Jisung to stare at the flyer under the glass top surface on the table. A crude drawing of an asteroid stares back from the top of the flyer, and Jisung’s gaze moves to the 8500 won per hour wage advertised with a picture of a comet badly slapped onto the design, next to the number. That’s the one he saw.

Is he up for it?

Of course he is.

_Renjun_ turns out to be just barely older than he is, holding a thermos flask of jasmine tea that Jisung can kind of smell from his place across the counter.

“New boy,” Renjun hums, an interested twinkle in his eye as he flicks open the cap of abovementioned thermos and takes a sip. “God knows we could use a new face around here. Here’s the—employment form or whatever, _here’s_ a shirt you’ll have to wear—wow, you’re tall, so I gave you a bigger one, mm. That’s all.”

Said items appear on the counter in a jiffy, before Jisung has the time to really process Renjun’s rapid speech, while the other looks as serene as ever, and is somehow _still_ drinking from his thermos. Slowly, nervously, Jisung pulls the plastic-wrapped shirt towards him, and picks up a stray pen to fill the form in. The shirt, like the bulk of the colour scheme in this place, is this dark-but-not-really-dark blue, with what looks like a pretty stiff collar, and, again, a comet, next to another drawing of the same asteroid.

“Oh, would you look at that,” Renjun chirps, “1am! Well, good night, Ji—uh—”

“Jisung.”

“Jisung.” Renjun completes triumphantly, gathering his few belongings and waving at his (now also Jisung’s?) similarly-attired colleagues lingering by the main entrance. “I’ll be off now! You can stay here at the counter, watch the screens, or like I said, you can wander around—do as you wish, just don’t break or take anything. You’ll be fine, nothing really happens here, it’s just that we need someone here for, uh, protocol or something, I don’t know. Good luck, and goodbye!”

In a blink Renjun is halfway across the lobby, shrugging his bag haphazardly onto his shoulder. Jisung, dazed and still without a single box on the form filled in, can only watch the other cross the space. Until Renjun _does_ turn back, and slower than ever before, says—

“Hey, Jisung. Have fun here on your own, but...but try not to be alone for too long, yeah?”

A reassuring nod, a final wave, and he’s _really_ gone, with the rest of the workers, wind carrying their laughter in the silent night. Jisung, on the other hand, is still in the same position.

Try not to be alone for too long—what the _hell_ does that mean?

Well—he’s got the job. Jisung pulls the dark-but-not-dark blue shirt out of the wrapping and over his head, scribbles out his details on the form, and settles down on what was previously Renjun’s chair behind the counter. It’ll be a long, long night.

But hey— _where_ is this?

Well, for starters— _here_ means the city’s planetarium, where Jisung has visited quite the number of times. It’s where he first discovered what exactly _space_ was, where he first learned how to use a telescope, where he first learned about a world _beyond_. He owes it all to this place, really. It’s _here_ where his fascination—his slight obsession, even—with celestial objects and the stories behind them began. He’s a physics major, now, but the stars—the _stars_. Jisung will never tire of learning about them.

Why he’s here _now_ , however, is an entirely different story.

The real, full-length backstory would be way too long and complicated to explain, so the short version is: Jisung is semi-broke and kind of in need of a job, he and Jaemin got handed a flyer after class, Jaemin is a _terribly_ convincing person, and, well, here he is. Just him, not Jaemin, because Jaemin’s got a respectable job working as a cashier at a small bookstore. Jisung, on the other hand, is stuck here at ass o’clock being a token night guard. 

Now don’t get him wrong—it's alright. Jisung _is_ giving up sleep, but his classes are all in the afternoon, a strategy he miraculously managed to scrape together when he first started out at university, and for which he is grateful for now. Even if it’s been a while since he’s been here as a visitor, he truly loves being here, in the observatory or in the halls or in the rooms. Why would he say no to being surrounded by things he’s fascinated about, familiar with, and comforted by for just 5 days a week?

It’s an easy job, Jisung swears. Being alone helps him focus, and he churns out his entire essay, detailed calculations and all, in that first night at this job. There’s nothing much he even has to look out for. Who wants to break into a planetarium? 

And it goes on—night after night after night—Jisung finishes another essay, and then walks around the themed exhibit halls and reads the text on each panel. He doesn’t visit the observatory, but only because there’s not much reason to. He can see the stars just fine when he walks to work. Most of the stuff he reads in the exhibits—he already knows them from countless visits and repeating readings, but it’s always nice to revisit where he first learned about all this. Space, the stars, and what’s out there for them to discover. Yet there is always _more_ for him to know—he’s just waiting for it to pass him by.

Something does pass him by on the seventh day, right in front of him.

𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘, 𝚓𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐.

Nothing else—just like that, a line of iridescent, slightly glowing text on the darkened screen of his laptop, and Jisung flinches backwards. 

𝚘𝚑, 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢. 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 

A tense moment, as the message backspaces on itself. Jisung is still backed away from the laptop, hands tightly scrunched into his jacket. A new message materialises, letter by letter.

𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚒 𝚊𝚖?

There’s a blank underneath the message, and a cursor winking at him. See—that’s Jisung’s hamartia—or something. Jisung, don’t you want to explore the abandoned classroom? Jisung, don’t you want to know what’s up with the house down the road? Jisung, wouldn’t you like to know? His curiosity overrides any sense that he has, and this is no exception. He wheels himself back to the laptop, shoes scuffling against the rough carpet.

YES, Jisung types, fingers tapping cautiously on the keyboard, still leaning a little away, jacket wrapped around him just a little tighter. Then, as an afterthought, PLEASE. WHO ARE YOU?

And just like that—a brief flicker, a snap—all the lights laid into the walls of the lobby come on, one by one, beginning right across from him, near the entrance, and leading right up to the counter. _That_ is not someone else’s doing, the switches are all right here, over at the counter where Jisung is sitting, where no one else is except for him. The planetarium is _empty_.

𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔—𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒’𝚖 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝.

The text pauses for a few seconds, and Jisung doesn’t dare to move. It backspaces on itself soon enough, though, and a new message begins to take its place.

𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘, 𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚜𝚘. 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚒𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚒𝚝? 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒 𝚊𝚖 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚊𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚢. 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛: 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎. 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚓𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐.

The screen crossfades back to display his half complete tutorial, matching the rate of the lights slowly dimming back to the cold glow Jisung has now become familiar with. Everything is normal again—and at the same time abnormal, like someone took apart a figurine of this place and reconstructed it without looking at the instructions.

His questions, again, are unanswered. The curiosity still _burns_.

* * *

Inquisitive and curious as he is, Jisung doesn’t ask his fellow planetarium staff for answers. There’s just… _something_ about that message that compels him to keep it to himself, to believe that this was truly meant for him and the messenger only. 

And it goes on—and on and on and on.

Jisung changes shifts at 8am, when the day guard, who happens to be _very_ fond of reassuring, crushing hugs, comes to take over. Then, still feeling oddly content from that habitual greeting as they exchange posts, he trudges home, falls face first into his sheets, and doesn’t get up till about 2pm. After that he pulls himself together just enough to get to class, ends up running all over campus for some reason or another, hangs out in the library till everyone else there has left or is currently nodding off, _then_ he heads to the planetarium. Even then, he usually arrives at work early.

Getting there early means that Jisung gets to see the last of the visitors out—most of them are young students like him. He finds that it’s nice to have people who aren’t his classmates to talk about space with sometimes, even if they don’t talk for long. It also means that he vaguely knows the rest of the staff now—though Renjun is still the one he is most familiar with.

Then—Jisung can’t help but hear—come the whispers.

The ominous feeling he gets when the regular staff converge near the exit and look back to wave him goodbye is _mounting_ , to be frank. And yes, the whispers—Jisung isn’t eavesdropping, alright? But it’s just _hard_ when you’re standing in the vicinity of other people and they’re talking in that certain tone and what feels like pity is burning into your back. The staff always, for some reason, seem to be doing it like they’re _really_ waving him goodbye, an earnest gesture that suggests something like—

Like fear. That’s what it is, but Jisung can’t for the life of him figure out _why_.

“Poor kid,” is the exchange he first overhears clearly, logging in his attendance as Renjun hurriedly tidies up the counter. “I actually like him.”

“How long do you think he’ll last?” is the second, followed up with, “The last one was, what, three months?”

And then, from Renjun himself, walking away from the counter and from Jisung, “it’s always the nice and innocent ones, yeah. Not like...we can do anything about it. Let’s go.”

Now, if the Jisung working here was 14-year-old conspiracy theorist Jisung he would probably have panicked, and started thinking of aliens! Kidnappings! Mysterious disappearances in general!

But no. Jisung is twenty and going to university, so he chalks it up to the terrible working hours this job has to have, and leaves it at that. Well—nothing to pity him for, right? He likes the planetarium. He gets money, he gets to make the most of his time. He’s _winning_.

Still he doesn’t say anything—not about him, in reality, being comfortable with this job, and certainly not about the encounters he’s had and will have with the messenger.

Things are quiet for a week before Jisung gets a visit again.

It shows up overlaid on a stray world mythology video Jisung was absentmindedly watching.

𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚓𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐. 𝚒 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕?

Same golden text, same flashing cursor, floating in the middle of his screen, prominent against the darkened background. Jisung, somehow, isn’t even afraid this time—somehow, the message seems like an oil lamp burning steadily at one’s door, like an old friend here to lead you home.

YES, is his reply, of course. YES, HELLO!

𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚒 𝚊𝚖?

Ah, Jisung hasn’t been this excited for a while. Around him, the lights are still dim, but the little light from his laptop is enough for him. Jisung almost _shakes_ in excitement as he types out his response.

𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚓𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚒 𝚊𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚓𝚘𝚛, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚢, 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞? 𝚒’𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐. 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 

YES, is the enthusiastic, fervent, almost desperate reply Jisung hammers out into the reply box when the message finishes backspacing on itself. YES, WHAT CAN YOU TEACH ME?

𝚕𝚎𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔. 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎. 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗? 𝚕𝚎𝚝’𝚜 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 

𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍? 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚗.

I KNOW HIM. HE’S THE HUNTER, ISN’T HE? AND HIS BELT IS AN ASTERISM. I SEE IT A LOT WHEN I GO HOME LATE.

𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑? 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛, 𝚓𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐. 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎. 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗.

It’s not there, Jisung should know this. He’s gone through this particular hall countless times, pacing and reading and learning. Out of bounds or not, there is no room here. But—this messenger knows more than Jisung does, don’t they? Jisung’s fingers trace the dense text printed onto the panel in front of him until they reach the very edge of the panel. He latches on to the side—and he pulls.

The change is _immediate_ —instantly his already dimmed surroundings are submerged in complete darkness. His laptop, though still balanced in his hand, has shut down. There is no wall in front or beside or behind him, just nothing, nothing at all. 

He’s not scared. Typically he would be, but the planetarium is safe—this he knows.

A spark. That’s what marks the beginning of the next change. A spark in his immediate proximity, beginning as a burst of light and then a continued flare, and one by one there are more and more of them—a spark and a burst and then a flare, glowing gossamer strings of light stretching between them and sketched out and written down and _created_ in front and beside and behind him. They’re all over the darkness and the void, drawings and stories mapped about above and beneath him, and when he holds his hand up he finds that even he is bathed in this golden light. Before him, lines take shape and form suspended words, still gold, that same glittering gold.

𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚓𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚞𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜. 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

And the stars swirl around the nothingness around him, a hurricane of cosmic latte still stretching out into the darkness beyond—until it slows and a small golden figure, belt and shield and all, turns towards him and raises its arm to wave at Jisung.

“Hello,” Jisung says stretching out his hand, “hello.” His own voice holds a sense of awe so unadulterated and so _pure_ Jisung feels like a child gazing upon the constellations for the first time again. The figure, somehow, runs up and onto his open palm, where it puffs out its chest, intangible apart from a gentle warmth beginning from his hand and slowly travelling up his arm. It’s about the size of a large textbook, but weightless and full of light.

𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍—𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚜. 

Sure enough, Orion, perched on Jisung’s arm, turns to the side while lifting his arm a little—and there is a golden arrow in his side, straight and rigid and merciless in the network of thin threads of light that make up his existence.

𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝, 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛.

𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚜, 𝚓𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐?

There is no answer box for him to reply with this time—his laptop is shut and tucked under his arm. “That we should,” he begins, whispering into the void hesitantly. 

But why? He’s here to learn. This is just like how it is to sit in a lecture hall and ask the professor a question in front of everyone else. His voice grows a little stronger. “That we should be wary of even our friends. Even our friends could hurt us.”

𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐. 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚟𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞—𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝. 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚜. 

The golden light _grows_ , and the words even become even _more_ luminous. There is something about them now—Jisung knows that they are just a light show, even if it is a beautiful one, but there _is_ something, _there is something_. Jisung _knows_ this is something he must know. 

𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜.

They continue to shift and deconstruct and reconstruct, and they are _palpable_ even in this tapestry of light, a work of art made up of hundreds of tiny drawings that are just as alive as Jisung is.

𝚒 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

Orion jumps off his hand, leaping forwards across a distance neither short nor long, and comes to rest, features reducing to the simplest of the strings of light, fitting back into the celestial sphere neatly, easily, like it was a puzzle piece that Jisung borrowed from the picture, but which he must return to its rightful place.

He blinks—and it’s all gone. Jisung, extraordinarily, is back at his seat behind the counter, laptop restarted and open to the video he was watching. The lights in the lobby have automatically switched off—it’s daylight. Sunlight begins to filter in from the glass dome overhead. Jisung is, for the time being, still alone.

That _can’t_ have happened, Jisung concludes, because there’s no way that he was in...wherever that was behind the exhibition panel one moment and back here at the counter the next. No, he probably just fell asleep at the counter. That must have been a dream.

𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖.

The text is gold and overlaid over his dim screen yet again—but Jisung doesn’t have a reply this time. Not that he has a chance to, anyway.

𝚒 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜.

Of course. Jisung thinks of the gold, the light, the weight and lack of weight of Orion on his palm. No, he’ll never tell anyone about those.

𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚓𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐.

The message dissolves, melting away and revealing the video once more. Jisung thinks he can hear the day guard trudging along the asphalt of the car park, so he gets up to open the door for him.

The following week of work finds Jisung waddling around the office, shifting papers and files and boxes. Over the weekend the planetarium manager—Jisung still knows close to nothing about her apart from being able to recognise her cat-like eyes in the Friday closing crowd—decided that there was too much in their archives that needed to be cleared up, so... _this_. When Jisung came in for work on Monday night Renjun, bag already packed and slung across his torso, steered him directly into the office, pointed at a few boxes in quick succession, gave him instructions as fast as when they first conversed, and left just as speedily.

Jisung is left alone with the stacks of old paperwork, records upon records piled on the few office tables they actually use, and the dusty, moth carcass-ridden overhead light. It’s a little bleak and Jisung probably has better things to do, but at the same time—filing is admittedly quite the therapeutic activity. Self-care, right?

A playlist—the one that has no name other than the emoji of Saturn—is playing softly on shuffle. His phone notifications are turned off, and in the foreground Jisung is quietly chipping away at the mountain of documents to be sorted, little by little. If a painter was here he’d make a pretty nice tableaux for them, with the towers of files and the light that threatens to fuse at any moment, and his glasses slowly slipping further and further down his nose. That thought is quickly dismissed, his attention steering towards other things, like the dates and the names and the brief lives of those who worked here before him, all inked on the yellowed papers he’s holding, years after they were first filled in.

The planetarium isn’t new—this is clear from the paint chipping off in less-visited wings of the building, the fuzzy carpet of a dubious colour running along the corridors, and even the front desk, wood chipping off the corners and warped in some places, with rings left behind by the mugs of dozens of staff he’ll never meet. These records go back ten, fifteen, twenty years, and Jisung isn’t even sure when he’ll get to his own.

And then there’s _why_ these documents exist in the first place. The planetarium’s guides, like Renjun, have already sorted out the annual reports and whatnot during their shift, so Jisung is left with things like employment and resignation forms. The employment forms have looked pretty much the same for all the years the planetarium has existed, so what catches Jisung’s attention is instead the _resignation_ forms.

Half of these aren’t even filled in by the resigning staff themselves. As Jisung slots each piece of documentation into carefully labelled files, in chronological and all, there’s a certain pattern he can’t help but notice. Resignation forms include a section for “reason of resignation”, but about fifteen years ago reasons like “missing from work” and “no formal resignation submitted” started showing up. These ambiguous reasons increase in frequency as the dates on the form move closer and closer to present day, and sometimes mere dashes take up the space in the section for resignation reasons.

Now—this is strange, and Jisung considers reviving his fourteen-year-old conspiracy theory self. What the _hell_ happened to these people? It can’t—can’t just be that so many workers at the planetarium over the years were simply irresponsible enough to just _leave_ without this. No, there’s something _else_ behind this, something he doesn’t—

_Ding!_

It’s his phone.

Which Jisung thought he left on silent mode when he first began sifting through the papers, but that was _definitely_ a phone notification. One that completely paused his music, too.

When he turns his phone on there’s nothing in the notification section except for an alert from “MESSENGER”. No corresponding symbol, no additional text, just “MESSENGER” with a pale yellow notification banner. Normally Jisung would worry about his phone having a strange bug, but...this is different again. He taps on the notification just as the lamp buzzes and flashes overhead.

It’s a pop-up this time.

𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚓𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐.

𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎?

There’s no space for him to reply, again, and somehow Jisung knows that he’s not supposed to give a verbal answer now—at least not yet. Instead, there is a separate option to tap, right beneath the pop-up. 

YES, it reads. Nothing more. 

Well—not that Jisung would have said no, anyway.

He taps it, and instantly there is a building excitement from somewhere within himself, an expectation of the known unknown. For a while, there is no reply, but the lamp is really beginning to flash rapidly than what must be normal. Still, Jisung doesn’t pay any attention to it.

𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚍. 

The lamp must be flashing at the frequency of a strobe light, and this pop-up doesn’t stay around for long.

𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

With a final valiant flicker and splutter, the light gives out, and the darkness engulfs him once more. No light at all, not even from Jisung’s phone, which was definitely turned on just a second ago.

And Jisung knows what to expect—the sprawling network of golden thread and golden light. The swirling mass of the colour of the universe. There, right before him but a little off to the right, Orion, who morphs into his detailed form to wave enthusiastically at Jisung before blending back into the starscape once again.

In the middle, directly in front of him like Orion was the last time, lies a constellation Jisung is not unfamiliar with.

𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚜.

And sure enough, there they _are_. 

Gemini is a genuinely _handsome_ constellation, Jisung realises, as the twins step forward and bow deeply towards him. They’re a little smaller than Orion was, but they’re truly _identical_ , completely in harmony, save from the fact that the one on the right is now...kneeling. But Jisung can’t remember which is—

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝙿𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚡. 𝙲𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎.

𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐?

There are the suspended words again, the same gossamer gold. Truthfully, Jisung probably does, but all his self-learned knowledge about observational astronomy and the constellations seemed to have left him for now. 

He’s here to learn, anyway. He learned from the messenger the last time, and he will again this time. It’s time for him to speak, now.

“No,” Jisung says, and this time his voice rings out in the darkness and then falls flat. There are no surfaces for his voice to ricochet off. No echoes, not at all. Jisung finally remembers to bow back to the twins as the words reassemble.

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏-𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜—𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚕, 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝. 

𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑. 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚡 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍, 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚑. 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛, 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍.

In front of him, the light swirls around the twins, and Jisung sees it—Castor’s hand pressed to his chest, unable to conceal the gash beneath it. The gold oozing down his arm is surely a product of violence, but in this place it looks beautiful.

𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗?

And by Castor’s side is still Pollux, one hand wrapped around the hilt of a sword, tip resting on the invisible ground they stand on, the other laid gently, but firmly on his brother’s shoulder. He’s looking up at the sky. Jisung knows that in another world—their world—he might have been looking for his godly father, but in this, he’s gazing upon the web of stars he himself is a part of. 

𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚡 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛. 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚣𝚎𝚞𝚜 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜.

𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚒 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗, 𝚓𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐?

It clicks easier this time—an answer comes to mind. “That someone will always be there for us?”

𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎—𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚒 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚜:

𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚕, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚛’𝚜 𝚊𝚒𝚍.

𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

It’s much _faster_ this time, too. He blinks, and the office comes into view once more. Long shadows are still cast all along the room, but the door is propped open, something Jisung definitely did not do when he first came in. On the other side, through the tiny window, the top of the few trees outside are just beginning to be tinted in gold.

“Jisung?”

He jumps—but there’s no reason to. It’s just the day guard, standing in the doorway and leaning in slightly. “Is the light broken?”

“Y-yeah.” Jisung’s reply comes several beats late, still reeling from the encounter with Gemini. “Could you...get management to fix it? Get a new light?”

“Sure,” the guard gives him an odd look. “Go home and get some rest, yeah?”

Jisung, nodding vigorously, begins to pack up his things hurriedly, shoving his jacket into his backpack haphazardly and clutching his phone tightly in one hand. 

On his way out, just as the day guard claps a sturdy hand on his shoulder for a moment, Jisung feels his phone vibrate. It’s another notification from the messenger, and this time the message is simple.

𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗.

The _next_ time Jisung isn’t even sure about how he gets here. One moment he’s zoning out behind the counter, and the next he’s _here_ again. Back in the golden void, this time with a woman smiling amicably at him. She’s seated upright, back straight, but her ankles and wrists are bound with chains that look heavy even if Jisung knows they are just light.

𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚊’𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎.

There is something poignant about Andromeda’s stance and posture and face, not just physically visible but simply _emanating_ from her, as if she was simultaneously belonging to the celestial sphere but yet alienated from it. Jisung, not wanting to cross any lines—not that he knows of any—merely studies her from his place, half a metre away from her. The words take a different form once more.

𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚊’𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚢—𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎. 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚜.

“All actions have consequences,” Jisung answers. An arm’s length away, Andromeda gazes helplessly at him for a second, then lowers her eyes to her wrists once more. Jisung doesn’t really pity her.

𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍. 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎?

Something’s different about the space today, a certain certainty permeated in the air. Where did it come from—did Jisung bring it in here? Now he knows _exactly_ what to say.

“Pride is a mortal flaw and a mortal punishment. Pride, in the end, must bow to entities higher than itself. Above. Above itself.”

The sound of silence—that originless buzz and ring—that is all that fills the space. Andromeda rises unsteadily, inclines her head towards Jisung, and paces away. Back turned, chains dragging against the surface on which she walks on, and she fades back into the golden landscape seamlessly.

𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝. 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎.

𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜?

A moment of clarity is allowed—he does have a question.

“You’ve been here...longer than anyone has. I know that. So the records I saw in the office...the ones that had really questionable reasons for resignation...what are those about?”

The lines and bends and turns that make up the words he’s grown used to seeing swirl around aggressively, and Jisung thinks that just maybe—he shouldn’t have asked. Finally, from the broth of starlight, like a potion made of light, a new message arises.

𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢, 𝚝𝚘𝚘, 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚎. 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞—𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚜.

Jisung whispers—just felt that it was appropriate.

“Good things never befall the prideful.”

There is a warmth that fills the room now. One that is familiar yet never felt before, one that is natural yet inexplicable. Jisung knows that his teacher is pleased.

𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢, 𝚓𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐.

𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝚒 𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐.

He’s deposited in the middle of the lobby this time, standing under the centre of the rotunda. No reason for him to stay there—all of his things are back at the counter.

The counter, though, has something else waiting for him.

𝟸𝟾𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚢, 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢. 

Written in shimmering golden ink, on a card the colour of a clear night sky, laid carefully on top of his bag. The planetarium is still empty, and this message is from a friend. Below the date, another line is written, the ink still fresh and glistening.

𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜, 𝚓𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐.

The 28th of February finds Jisung trudging into the planetarium, bag weighing his body and mind and heart down. It’s been a long day, a long week. He’s late today—passes Renjun and co at the door as they head out and he heads in. The entire group shoots him polite smiles and encouraging nods, though there’s an unmistakable tinge of concern behind every movement of theirs that’s directed at him. Jisung struggles to return their gestures.

He planned to change into the planetarium’s staff shirt only after he got there, but clearly, that wasn’t working right now. Jisung slumps down behind the counter, sliding into the vacant chair, still a little warm from Renjun sitting on it for what must have been almost all 2of his working hours. Jisung doesn’t do anything—simply sits there, head lowered uncomfortably onto the peeling surface of the counter, bent forward on the raised bar stool. His bag is still on his back, weighing him down and pinning him here.

𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺 _,_ 𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨 _?_

This time it is a voice—out of nowhere, and it echoes around the rounded lobby, ricocheting off the walls in a disconcerted harmony. It doesn’t seem to be coming from anywhere, a bodiless source Jisung is simply surrounded by.

𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨—𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨—𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨— _?_

No, the planetarium is empty. This voice is neutral, completely androgynous, neither high nor low, neither fast nor slow. But there is a luminosity to it, a voice dripping honey, dripping liquid gold. Jisung listens, but the voice is expecting a reply.

It’s the 28th of February.

“No,” Jisung calls out, lifting his head and gazing out into the empty lobby. “No, I remember. We’re meeting tonight.”

His own voice now travels around the space, all around and everywhere.

Tonight—tonight—tonight.

𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺 _,_ 𝘪 _’_ 𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘭𝘺𝘳𝘢 _._

An instrument. Gold, no different from Orion or Gemini or Andromeda, right under the skylight, encased by the rotunda, spotlighted in the center of the lobby. It looks like a harp, but Jisung somehow knows that it’s not. 

“Orpheus’ lyre.” 

The lyre shimmers on its own accord, spinning, twirling, gathering the sparks and flares and bursts that are slithering into the rounded space. The golden dust gathers, the lyre looks more and more solid by the second. It has a mind of its own, it seems, moving like it was alive, breathing, seeing, _knowing_.

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 _,_ 𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨 _._

The voice is gentle. Jisung listens, and then he rises, bag slipping off his shoulders, his feet falling into an unorchestrated pace.

𝘪 _’_ 𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺 _._

The lights laid all around the lobby were still lit when he came in and collapsed at the counter, but as he wanders out towards the lyre, they switch off, one by one, just like the seventh day he arrived here. The lyre glows brighter. It’s dreamlike, as if Jisung is sleepwalking, and the room and the planetarium and even the whole world is here for them. Him, the lyre, and the messenger.

𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘺𝘳𝘦 _._

He does. In his hands, the lyre is delicate yet solid, neither warm nor cold, another lightshow that seems to be transient but yet very much present.

A note rings out in the space, echoing, resounding. It’s a greeting. Jisung, mesmerised, holds the lyre closer, watching the lights ripple as the sound makes waves in them.

𝘪 _’_ 𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 _,_ 𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨 _._

He’s holding the lyre to his chest, tenderly, like a lover. “To where?”

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 _._

He knows where the observatory is, of course, another aged wing of the building, but still kept alive by curious eyes and curious minds. Still Jisung lets the messenger guide his footsteps, a completely trusting journey.

𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 _,_ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘺𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘶𝘴 _._ 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘶𝘳𝘺𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘦 _?_

He does. Orpheus charmed every living being with his music on his way there. The lyre, now in Jisung’s hands, plays a note for every slow step he takes. A hum of encouragement and guidance in his march forwards, upwards. Jisung feels the vibrations in his fingers, his bones, carried by his blood to his heart.

𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 _._

Everything is falling into place. The golden dust shifts and blows and, most of all, points the way. Jisung follows it through the dark corridors, the dark stairways, and he never misses a step. Like Dorothy, on the yellow brick road. The lyre is still light in his hands. Its song sounds like a lullaby.

𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥 _,_ 𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨 _?_

He is. Jisung lifts his head high, tilts his chin upwards. He is. The sky is clear tonight.

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 _’_ 𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘶𝘴 _._

He raises the lyre to the sky, gold against the backdrop of indigo. He could blend in too, if he wanted. He’d hang the lyre up in the sky for Orpheus, and then he’ll climb up and find a patch of the sky for himself. Blur him out into the darkness, blend his dark-but-not-dark blue shirt into the sky. He could stay there. He could.

𝘥𝘰𝘯 _’_ 𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘯𝘰𝘸 _,_ 𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨 _._

He won’t—of course he won’t. He could stay here. He could stay here, arms raised up to the sky, holding the lyre up like an offering. The golden lights are swirling around _him_ , a gentle hurricane, before they rise up to take their place on the infinite canvas in the heavens. They could take him along, Jisung reasons. They’ll take the lyre, and then they can take him too.

He’ll see all the beings he’s met—Orion, Gemini, Andromeda, and then he’ll return the lyre to Orpheus. He could—he could. The lyre, gleaming, is still playing the same tune, though there’s nothing it’s guiding Jisung to anymore. This—and a little more—is his destination. They’ve arrived. Jisung will stay here. He won’t look back.

“Jisung?”

He sees daylight.

“Jisung,” it’s Renjun’s voice, now, coming from the staircase leading up to the roof, half hidden by the steps. Lit by the rising sun in a warm honeyed hue, Renjun looks tired—and quietly resigned.

“Come down, Jisung.” Renjun manages a small smile. “Won’t you, Jisung? Come on down.”

It’s daylight—Jisung has already looked back by now. The roof is empty, and now that all the gold and the light and magic is gone it is what it is—a barren space. He’s been here before, and he _was just here_ , but now it’s like he’s seeing it for what it is for the first time. He follows Renjun down the stairs, quietly, breath held to avoid making noise, even if no one is there to hush them.

Jisung holds his hands together, palms turned upwards. The lyre has been returned, and all that remains of it is a fist-sized card, stained midnight blue. The gold seamlessly fits in, pressed, burned, embroidered into the cardstock. It’s welcome. It’s familiar.

𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭. 𝘪 _’_ 𝘮 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘪 _’_ 𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.

It’s during his second time on the roof, at the observatory that Jisung is able to pinpoint _what_ exactly the voice reminds him of. It twinkles with anticipation, actually, like children waiting for Santa on Christmas Eve. The consistency—like molten molasses, somehow, a warm, sticky puddle Jisung is knee-deep in, but he doesn’t even mind.

He won’t mind even if he drowned in it. He didn’t even stay at the counter tonight, just left his bag on the floor and marched—no, he practically floated—up to the roof. It just felt right. It always felt right, doing this, even as he sits with his legs stretched out on the rough concrete, sun-warmed in the day but cooled again under the moonlight. Feels right to be here, with gold swirling all around him, like the sandman’s magic. If this was a dream, it was more lucid than any other dream Jisung has had. There is an eagle perched sturdily on his knee, and as usual Jisung knows it’s probably not really there, but the grip its talons have on him is somehow tangible. Grounding. As usual, it’s okay for him to be here, and he should stay here too.

𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘢, 𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨.

The eagle—a truly majestic creature, outlined boldly in streaks of light—flaps its wings, and impossibly, Jisung’s hair lifts a little, the gentle rush of wind visible in the way the surrounding gold swirls in his direction. 

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 _’_ 𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵.

𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘢, 𝘸𝘰𝘯 _’_ 𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 _?_

It’s one of those out-of-body experiences Jisung’s having right now, like he was looking at his own body on the ground of the observatory roof. His limbs don’t feel like his own, as if he had merely borrowed his physical body and was now ejected from it. His voice, when he hears it, doesn’t seem like his own, and neither do his words, but they’re so _right_. His voice—the voice—it’s saying all the right things, the right answers.

“Aquila is an eagle belonging to Zeus,” Jisung says, eyes glazed over. The eagle on his knee calls out silently, and still Jisung thinks he hears it in his head. “Aquila carried Zeus’ thunderbolts, and—”

𝘢𝘯𝘥 _?_

The eagle fixes him with a beady stare. Jisung continues, an automatic response he doesn’t know he processed. He looks up—up at the cloudless indigo sky, the canvas dotted by millions of systems born and burning and dying.

“Aquila was sent by Zeus to capture Ganymede. Ganymede was a young Trojan—and Zeus desired him. Ganymede became the cup bearer of the gods on Olympus.”

𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 _?_

A chalice dangles by the handle from the eagle’s beak, and if Jisung looks closer he can see faint colours woven into the gold. Cool red, warm blue. 

“Yes,” he’s a little breathless when he replies, “exactly like this.” Every sound, every tone of his latches on to the magic in the air, hovering for a moment before being carried up to the heavens, rising, and rising. Jisung’s fingers curl unconsciously, eyes still fixated on the eagle and the chalice.

_𝘨𝘰 𝘢𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥_.

“Thank you,” and this time there is relief, gratitude, veneration in his voice now when he reaches out to the eagle, the chalice glistening, just waiting to be dropped into his hands. “Thank you, thank you.”

The chalice feels like a _trophy_. Jisung is well aware that this is not his, but he’s _special_ , _important_ enough to be able to see it—to hold it at all. There is a drumming coming from within the chalice that matches every breath of his. He shouldn’t be able to hold this. No, it’s not possible, but it _is_. He _can_ hold it, he _is_ holding it.

𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 _?_

“Yes—yes.” He feels like that child again, the wide-eyed wonder-filled creature, desperate for _more_. The gold swirls thickly, a layer of fog settled in a bubble over and around Jisung. There is _more_ out there, _more_ in the midst of the dreamy haze. Jisung feels the chalice cradled in his hands, the eagle still perched on his knee.

𝘪𝘵 _’_ 𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 _,_ 𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨 _._

𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 _,_ 𝘸𝘰𝘯 _’_ 𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 _?_

_𝘢𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶._

Jisung _knows_.

Aquila raises its head to the sky, a long cry released into the night, and god, Jisung wants to _go._ The world beyond—it is vast, and in this split second he knows, he knows. There is something beyond him, something waiting to be taught to him, something more. For a long time—the planetarium guides, he follows.

Why would this night be any different?

In reality he can barely see—the gold is a heavy fog settled around him, a cocoon of magic. As Jisung stands—he simply must—Aquila rises too, settling on his shoulder, a weight even more grounding than before. And when he steps forward, it is a movement made blind but yet all-seeing, the swish of gold and the forward lean of the eagle telling him that yes, _this is the right way_. 

Nothing can go wrong.

Beyond his bubble Jisung knows the sky is clear, knows he’s expected to be somewhere, knows that the very chalice in his hands is what he needs, his ticket to everything beyond him. He knows it’s out there. What is it? He’s ready to know.

It starts slow, gentle, a lightness of the body, a sedated state of the mind. Everything is swirling _upwards_ instead of forwards now, and when Jisung thinks he can’t feel the ground under his feet anymore, Aquila is there. This is real, this is tangible, this is _okay_. Jisung looks down at his hands, and discovers that the chalice is taking shape, the curves and contours of the cup forming in his own hands.

And there’s not much else to it—simply a slow rise upwards, so steady it doesn’t seem to be happening at all. And Jisung, oh, Jisung—the gold is seared into his eyes, just as full of wonder as they were when he first stepped foot into the planetarium, and now he burns gold with it too. 

There is nothing more. Jisung’s face is tilted up to where the sprawling canvas must be, full of drawings and stories, beyond his capsule to the beyond. 

In it, a metamorphosis takes place. There is nothing, nothing at all, but still it will give way to _more._ And Jisung—he’s coming for it.

* * *

Out of all the current staff working here, Renjun is the one who has lasted the second-longest—the most experienced one out of them all is still Seulgi, clicking pens in the office all day and sometimes leading little children all around the planetarium.

And with good reason, too. It takes a certain kind of person to be able to handle having this knowledge for too long. In the staff members’ case, this is the knowledge that almost every new overnight staff simply goes missing after a while at their job. They’ve done a good job keeping it quiet, so nobody out there knows. And even if they did—what can they do? They don’t know why it happens. The planetarium still needs overnight staff. 

Renjun knew it was coming.

Knew it since the beginning, really. From the morning he found Jisung on the rooftop of the observatory, from the time Jisung dragged himself into the building just as he was leaving, from the moment he peered at Jisung over the rim of his thermos flask at the counter.

Really—it _had_ to be coming. Renjun isn’t surprised when he arrives even before Johnny does the next day, way earlier than the time his hours begin. The lobby is quiet, the corridors are barren—he climbs the stairs to the observatory. 

There it is—the sun. The sky is cloudless this morning, clearing the canvas for the sunrise, a blindingly golden affair. The planetarium turns into a palace, almost, painted over with liquid gold, and it is in this light that Renjun spots the backpack on the rough ground. Plain black, with a noisy-looking keychain attached to the side, unmistakably Jisung’s. That’s all that Renjun needs to see, all he needs to know.

Renjun shoulders the bag, casts a final glance out towards the horizon, and heads down the stairs. Back in the office, he stows it neatly in a cabinet, filled with shelves of neatly curated belongings that have been left behind and will never be claimed.

He sits down in Seulgi’s chair, sends a message to her to tell her that posters calling for overnight staff need to be put up again. Then, he pulls out a form from the drawer, and picks out a pen from the holder. This is his least favourite part of the job.

As Renjun fills out the form in the dim office, the sun rises beyond the walls. The gold drains and fades away from the planetarium once more.

**𝚁𝙴𝙲𝙾𝚁𝙳 𝙾𝙵 𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙸𝙶𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽**

**𝙽𝙰𝙼𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝙵𝙵:** 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝙹𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚐

**𝙿𝙾𝚂𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽/𝙹𝙾𝙱 𝚂𝙲𝙾𝙿𝙴:** 𝙾𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚏𝚏

**𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚂𝙾𝙽 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙸𝙶𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽:** 𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔

**𝙽𝙰𝙼𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝚁𝙴𝙲𝙾𝚁𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝙵𝙵 / 𝙳𝙰𝚃𝙴:** 𝙷𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚁𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚞𝚗, 𝟿/𝟹

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. if you read this 8k fic, i’m sure that you have a little time to read [this carrd](https://issuesintheworld.carrd.co/). though it must be nice to escape reality for a while—kind of like how jisung has done in this story, this is the reality we live in. let’s all be aware of what is happening in our world.  
> 2\. the 5 symbols used in this fic are from [this website](https://www.suberic.net/~dmm/astro/constellations.html)  
> 3\. thank you [yy](https://twitter.com/hoodiehwi?s=21), thank you [rae](https://twitter.com/_hwangtwt?s=21), thank you mods! this was a lovely fest to have participated in ♡  
> 4\. tell me about the stars (i am open to both astronomy and astrology) and also the moon [here](https://curiouscat.me/sunglovbot), otherwise i am [here](https://twitter.com/sunglovbot?s=21)


End file.
